If It’s Tuesday It Must be Trouble….

18 Sep

Another release from GSP author of the week:  If It’s Tuesday It Must be Trouble.




Former cop turned PI, Mel Thompson is on another case. The fashion world is an alien one to Mel, but she’s eager to learn so she’s working as an intern to a fashion designer in order to figure out who killed an up and coming designer. The designer just happens to be the sister of the fashion house manager and a member of the richest family in town. Mel plans on being an intern for a few weeks, getting the information she needs and getting out. She doesn’t plan on actually liking the people in the fashion house and she doesn’t plan on being in harms way, again. 


I looked at the calendar on my Smartphone. Three months to the day. I shuddered, thinking about how close I came to never waking up again. As a cop I’d been in dangerous situations and I never thought about dying until the day I was shot. Two years ago. I flexed my left leg. The surgery on my back had helped the pain, but the leg was still stiff at times—especially on a day like today, with rain coming down. Yesterday had been beautiful, one of those days that promised warm days ahead with plenty of sunshine and blue skies abounding. Well, that was yesterday. Today the gloomy skies put me in a bad mood. At least it’s not snowing again. I limped to the closet, opened it and rummaged inside for a T-shirt that read: FRODO LIVES, and a long denim skirt. I spotted my cane propped up in the corner and shook my head at it.

“No, you are not seeing the light of day ever again!” I told it, slamming the closet door shut.

“Who you talking to, Mel?” Byron came into the bedroom, two mugs of coffee in his hands. His caramel-colored skin glowed with health. I gritted my teeth. Sometimes it was difficult to be around non-disabled people, even if one of those people was your cop boyfriend, who lived with you.

“No one, thanks for the coffee.”

He pointed to the T-shirt. “Nice shirt; not sure it’ll make the right impression on the loo though.”

“What are you talking about?” I heard the snappish tone in my voice, but chose to ignore it.

“Don’t you have an appointment with Lieutenant Fitzpatrick this morning to talk about being a cop again?”

“I did.” Sitting down on the edge of the bed, I took a sip of coffee and nodded to show my approval of the strength of it. Byron tended to make his coffee too weak.

“Glad you like the coffee, I had to water mine down with lots of cream and sugar to drink it.” He eyed me. His brown eyes were full of concern. I looked away from his stare. The one thing I hated more than anything was pity. I wouldn’t tolerate that from Byron.

“Tell me, Mel.”

A shrug. “I canceled the appointment. I’m not ready to go back yet.” I don’t know if I will ever be ready.

He reached for my hand, but I pulled away, cupping both hands around my mug. I stared out at the rain dripping down the upstairs window. The sky is crying.

“I thought you were looking forward to getting back in uniform.” Byron stood up, putting his mug on the dresser as he opened one drawer after another, obviously looking for something.

“What are you looking for?” I asked.

“My blue socks, they go with my shirt,” he said.

I pointed to the top drawer. “You are the only one I know who matches his socks to his shirt.” He opened the drawer, rooted around and found the pair he wanted. He held them up like they were a prize.

He sat down at the bench situated at the end of the bed to put the socks on. “I like to be color-coordinated—gives a more professional image.”

“You mean, unlike me?” I snarled. I was aching for a fight, a knock-down, drag-out of a fight. Anything to stop this hole I felt myself sliding into.

“Mel, what’s up?” He came over and sat next to me. He put an arm around my shoulders. “Are you upset about your leg not being better?”

I swallowed before answering. “It was better right after the surgery. I thought—I thought I could do PT and then I’d get my old life back. But it’s been three months since the surgery and I still have a limp.” I sat up straighter. “And on days like this—rainy, damp days—the pain is there.”

He looked worried, his dark brows knitted together as he contemplated me.

I shook my head. “No, it’s not bad pain, not like before. It’s like a toothache that never ends.” I turned my face away, staring at the carpet. “I have to face reality, Byron. I’m never going to be a cop again.”

“Oh, baby, I’m so sorry.” He gathered me in his arms. I wanted to give in to my emotions, to cry on his shoulder; but I wouldn’t allow myself to.

I broke out of the hug. “Aren’t you going to be late for work?” I pointed at the digital clock on the nightstand.

“Yeah, I guess I better go. Want me to try and break away for lunch?”

“No, I’ll be fine. There’s tuna, I can make a sandwich if there’s bread.”

“There is.” Since Byron moved in I have things in my condo I’ve never had before, like clean socks and bread. I had yet to get used to living like this.

“Promise me you’ll rest, Mel. You’re still recovering from being in the Intensive Care Unit.”

“You mean from last December? It’s March now, if you haven’t noticed.”

“Just rest, Mel. Take it easy. Read a book.” Byron was doing what I called his mother hen act.

“I know. I will. You better go. Thanks for the coffee.” I pasted on a fake smile. He frowned, but gave me a kiss before heading down the stairs. I sat cradling the mug. In a few moments I heard him yell, “‘Bye,” before the sound of the front door slamming.

I got up and wandered downstairs. Bryon left me a bagel on the counter, so I popped it in the toaster, sipping the coffee as I waited for it to pop back up. I buttered it and took it and the mug over to the kitchen table where my laptop sat. I took a bite of bagel before opening up the computer.

I had one email from my best friend, Cindy. Cindy’s daughter, Jessie had been murdered last year, and I had volunteered to find out what happened. In the course of the investigation I was nearly killed. She and her ex-husband, AJ, got remarried right before Christmas.

Hey Mel,
How ya doing? This morning sickness is worse than any I ever had with any of the other three. LOL. Good luck at your interview today.

Yeah. Good luck.
The other email was from someone I didn’t know. A woman named Rachel Smythe.

Dear Miz Thompson,
I saw in the newspaper you helped solve a murder a few months ago. I need your help. My sister Ruth is missing. The police won’t help me; they said since she’s an adult she’s allowed to go days without calling anyone, including me, if she wants. But she calls me every day and I haven’t heard from her for two days. Please email me to set up an appointment.

My fifteen minutes of fame. What the heck, I need the money. I emailed Rachel:

Call my phone and I can set up an appointment to chat with you. This doesn’t mean I am taking the case; only that I want more information.

I typed my phone number at the bottom of the email.

The phone rang a few minutes later.


“Is this Mel Thompson Investigations?” Right before Cindy’s daughter Jessie was murdered I got my private dick license. It meant I was a full-fledged private eye. Big whoop.


“May I speak to Mel? My name is Rachel Smythe.”

“This is Mel.”

“Oh, thank you for responding to my email. I’d like to meet you as soon as possible in your office.”
I hesitated. It wasn’t that I didn’t want the job, necessarily; but I hated for clients, even potential ones, to see where I lived. I was very protective of my space.

“I’m, er, redecorating my office right now. Why don’t we meet at the campus Starbucks near downtown? Know the one?” I dipped a finger in the butter dripping off the bagel.

“I do. What time?”

“I’m free whenever.”

“Now? I mean, in about twenty minutes?” Rachel asked.

“See you then. I’ll be the one in a T-shirt and long jeans skirt.” I hung up before the woman could say anything more. I hope she’s not a loon.





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